


Anniversary

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Alternate [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Flowers, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2842148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The bedroom smells like roses. It’s the first thing Irie notices upon coming awake." Irie forgets an anniversary, and Byakuran reminds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claws/gifts).



The bedroom smells like roses.

It’s the first thing Irie notices upon coming awake. The scent is hanging in the air, more tangible for a moment than the weight of the blankets tangled around his waist, and in his half-sleeping state it plugs into dozens of half-forgotten memories, skids him backwards through time until he’s lost track of where he is, who he is, what he is doing. He’s adrift, out of his body and displaced in time, and for a moment he has the thought of  _I wonder if this is what it’s like for Byakuran_.

Then that name clicks into place, settles him into a time and a reality, and when Irie opens his eyes he isn’t surprised to look up into an almost-sweet smile.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran purrs. He’s holding his hand over Irie’s shoulders; as Irie blinks at him he tips his fingers, lets petals scatter to land against the other’s t-shirt. “You’re awake.”

“What?” Irie can’t make out the details of any of the surroundings without his glasses; there’s only Byakuran’s face, his smile wide enough it’s clear even with the blur of myopia laid over it. When he starts to sit up there’s another rush of sweet into the air, a whole cascade of motion against him, and Irie looks down to blink at the red and white covering him. “What are you doing, Byakuran?”

“Do you like them?” Byakuran asks instead of answering. He’s sitting sideways on the edge of the bed, twisted at the waist so his shoulders are facing Irie, and he’s still smiling, reaching down to draw his other hand up with another handful of what Irie is realizing are petals. “I couldn’t decide.” This time when he throws them instead of scattering, flings the frail petals at Irie so the other flinches back, raises an arm in instinctive defense before they hit his skin and fall harmlessly to the sheets. “Red or white, it was a very difficult question.” He reaches down with both hands this time, comes back with a double handful so excessive he drops petals in his wake as he rocks up onto his knees to shuffle over the bed. When he lifts his hands the flowers come close enough to resolve into individual shapes for Irie, silk-soft crimson alongside snow-pure white. He reaches out to touch them, picks up a sliver of red while Byakuran keeps talking.

“White for purity. Red is for love, of course.” He flashes a wider grin, so sharp Irie can see the catch of light off his teeth as he lifts his hands over the other’s head. Irie watches the movement, then ducks his head and shuts his eyes as Byakuran upends his hands to drop the whole heap on him at once. They catch in his hair, linger at his shoulders, fall into a pile on his lap. “So I got both.” Freed of their burden, Byakuran’s fingers tangles into Irie’s hair, drag a petal free before pushing the waves back from the other’s face. “I think they suit us, don’t you?”

“Why?” Irie finally asks. The bed is covered in flower petals; Byakuran must have been at this for nearly an hour before Irie awoke, half-burying himself and the sheets both in the temporary additions. Some of them are crushed against the sheets, staining the fabric and the air both with their aroma. Irie reaches for one, holds it close enough that he can see the bruised darkness marring the smooth white. “Is there a reason?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” Byakuran leans in closer, presses the sharp edge of his shoulder against Irie’s like he’s a cat begging for attention. “You’re terrible, Sho-chan, this is a very important day!”

Irie reaches for the date, shuffles back through the past ten years with Byakuran, but he can’t find anything of note, at least nothing that would capture and hold the other’s attention like this. “What are you talking about?”

“This is the day that you betray me!” Byakuran chirps.

All Irie’s blood goes chill in his veins. He can’t breathe, suddenly, his throat is closing up as if he’s suddenly developed an allergy to the weight of the scent in the air. “W-what?” He reaches to adjust glasses that aren’t there, throws his arm out blind to fumble for where the frames usually are. “I didn’t, I  _haven’t_ , what are you talking about Byakuran?” His stomach jolts pain through him, folds him in over on himself. “I swear, I haven’t, I haven’t done  _anything_!”

Byakuran’s laugh is bright, high and delighted and sincere, and by all rights it ought to be reassuring. It’s not, no more so than the fingers that slide through Irie’s hair to curl against the back of his neck.

“I know,” Byakuran purrs, leaning in so close the warmth of his breath falls against Irie’s mouth as the other tries to gasp himself into calm. “I know you haven’t.” He laughs again, closes the distance to kiss against Irie’s upper lip. Irie can’t even try to respond; he’s too busy shaking, trembling like Byakuran’s touch is locking him in place. Byakuran’s lips leave the sticky catch of sugar in their wake; Irie has the distant misplaced thought that he must have been eating marshmallows for breakfast again.

“I don’t mean  _this_  timeline,” Byakuran says as he pulls away, his tone as amused as if Irie should have seen this obvious fact all along. “I mean the  _other_  one.” He keeps one hand at Irie’s neck, tugs at the other’s shirt with his free hand so he can brush his fingertips against skin gone chill with brief panic. “The one where you won.”

“I didn’t win,” Irie says, the familiar lines of this argument too well-worn for him to even think about his response. “The Vongola won, it wasn’t -- I didn’t want you dead.”

“But that’s what you got.” Byakuran slides his knees in closer, until he’s straddling Irie’s lap when he starts to tug the fabric up off the other’s chest. “And it all started with you turning traitor.” He pauses with Irie’s shirt half-off, just as the other is starting to lift his arms in reflexive assistance. “Though I guess you  _were_  a traitor from the beginning.” There’s another flash of teeth, another responsive chill along Irie’s spine before Byakuran drags his shirt up and over his eyes.

“Well.” The shirt comes free of Irie’s wrists; Byakuran tugs harder, changes his angle so the neckline starts to slip past Irie’s hair. “We’re celebrating the day you  _told_  me, anyway.” The shirt slides free and Byakuran throws it haphazardly aside, leans in closer so he’s all Irie can see.

“That was.” Irie remembers this, the weird future-past of an existence that never actually occurred. It gives him nightmares, still, sometimes. He swallows. “That was the day you betrayed  _me_ , too.”

“You  _do_  remember.” Byakuran sounds delighted, arches his back to press in closer to Irie’s chest while he sighs into the tangle of his hair. “It’s worth celebrating, us coming together even in mutual betrayal, don’t you think?”

“It’s worth celebrating that we  _didn’t_ ,” Irie says, some stubborn resistance forming itself out of nothing and taking over his mouth. “Since that never happened, really.”

Byakuran waves a hand, brushes away the nightmares and the memories and the whole lifetime of pain away with a single flippant motion. “That’s what the white is for. This timeline is still pure, after all. And I want to celebrate, so we’re going to.”

That’s really what it comes down to, in the end. Irie takes a breath of rose-weighted air, tastes the perfume on his tongue. “Okay.”

“I knew you’d agree,” Byakuran purrs, like there’s been a single moment in this lifetime Irie has tried to disagree with him. His fingers brace at Irie’s shoulder, press against the other’s collarbone. “Lie back.”

“Can I have my glasses?” Irie asks as he obeys, drops back over the sheets without more than a glance for the scattered petals he’ll land on. They crush under him, go damp and aromatic as they bruise.

“No.” Byakuran is sliding back down his body, easing his weight back over Irie’s knees instead of his hips. Occasionally he collects a handful of petals, tosses them towards Irie’s bared skin without looking. “Reach up for the bedframe, Sho-chan.”

Irie tips his head back to see where the frame is. It’s close, not even a stretch; all he has to do is lift his arms up over his head and curl his fingers around the cool metal. It fits against the palm of his hand like it was made to settle there.

“Good.” Byakuran’s not even looking at him; he’s drawing the sheets back, now, toppling a fall of petals over his knees while he uncovers Irie’s pajama pants. “Don’t let go.”

It doesn’t sound threatening. Byakuran sounds casual, off-hand, like he’s making a suggestion instead of stating an absolute order. But Irie parses the sentence as it is intended, flinches under the chill of foreboding that skims through him, and Byakuran hums a note of pleasure as he trails his fingers along Irie’s hips to pull at the elastic waistband of his pants.

“You’re shaking, Sho-chan.” Byakuran’s fingertips drag against Irie’s skin, press into the outside of his thighs as he pulls the clothing down off him. “Are you cold?”

“No,” Irie manages. Every time Byakuran speaks he feels like there’s electricity running through him, stalling out the rhythm of his heart into panicked attention, and he’s running too high on adrenaline to even think of steadying the tremble under his skin, but he’s the opposite of cold. “I’m not.”

“Mm.” Byakuran drags harder at his pants, pulls down another few inches until they’re off Irie’s hips entirely. “You’re right.”

Irie doesn’t look down. He knows without the assistance of blurred vision, can feel the heat flushing his cock hard with no stimulus at all and knows absolutely that Byakuran is leaning in closer, smiling the faint pleased smile he sometimes has when it’s not for Irie’s benefit at all. Irie doesn’t jump when Byakuran breathes out over him; he shudders instead, tight-wound heat shocking out into the rest of his body for a moment, and Byakuran laughs and draws away so he can pulls Irie’s pants down and off his legs. There’s another burst of perfume, petals crushing under Byakuran’s knees and into the folds of the sheets, and Irie has the thought that the room will smell of roses for days to come.

The loss of his pants doesn’t really make much of a difference. Rationally Irie is sure this should make him feel more vulnerable, stripped down to skin and laid out over the sheets for Byakuran. But clothes are hardly enough to stop Byakuran, if he wants something, and besides without the minimal cover of cloth there’s a much greater chance for the brush of fingers up the inside of Irie’s thigh, the faint scrape of fingernails before Byakuran skids away from more intimate contact.

“This is perfect,” he says conversationally, reaching to push Irie’s knee wider as he comes back up the bed to settle between the other’s legs, this time, instead of around them. “You make such a lovely picture, Sho-chan.” He leans in forward, reaching out to press his palm flat to the bed just over Irie’s shoulder, and he’s all-encompassing again, pale hair radiating out like a halo around milk-white skin and the sharp lines of purple drawing attention to his cheekbone. He’s smiling again, too, the expression crinkling up until Irie almost can’t make out the color of his eyes, and then he leans in closer, bumps his nose against Irie’s before he tips his head sideways and slots them together into a kiss. He tastes like sugar, sticky-sweet and cloying like the scent of the roses; Irie still opens his mouth, offers and asks with the same motion, and when Byakuran’s tongue slides in against his he shivers in relief. All Irie can taste is Byakuran, all he can smell are the flowers crushing under him, and when the fingers return to brush his hip all he can do is arch up to press himself against them. Byakuran laughs against his mouth, a tiny quick burst of sound, and his touch drags sideways, trails against the line of Irie’s hip and down against his thigh, not quite as far across as the tension in Irie wants.

“Byakuran,” Irie blurts, tightens his grip against the frame to fight back the urge to let go and drag Byakuran closer, maybe just to press the friction of his own palm against himself. Letting go doesn’t bear thinking about; Byakuran leaving him to his own devices will be the least of his worries, then.

“What is it, Sho-chan?” Byakuran is still close against his lips, the words dragging damp over Irie’s mouth for a moment before he ducks his head. Irie’s lips brush soft-tangled hair while Byakuran’s mouth touches his shoulder; there’s a scrape of teeth, the momentary slick of a tongue into the dip of his collarbone. “Do you want me to touch you?” The fingers slip back up Irie’s leg, hesitate at the line of his leg and hip, and Byakuran’s mouth slips down farther, skims over the flat of Irie’s chest and scrapes hard enough Irie is certain it’s leaving a mark. He doesn’t care; he’s not even trying to look to see what Byakuran is doing, just staring unseeing at the white of the ceiling and focusing all his attention on the tension in his hands, the twist of metal against his palms when he shifts his grip.

“Yes,” he says. It tastes like a plea and it sounds like an admission, and Byakuran’s mouth slides off his chosen location, curves into a smile so sharp Irie can feel the catch of teeth against him before Byakuran lifts his head, rocks back over his heels to he can press a hand against Irie’s shoulder and hold him down to the mattress.

“You did ask nicely,” Byakuran notes as he drags his fingers a half-inch sideways. Irie can feel the rush of heat that flushes his cock harder even than he is already, urges his hips up off the crushed-petal sheets a moment before he can convince himself to fall back against the bed. Byakuran just laughs, looks down so deliberately Irie can see where he’s gazing even without the clarity of his glasses.

“And you  _are_  desperate.” The heat of his touch drags sideways, fingers flexing with uneven pressure so Irie can feel each one separately as Byakuran slides his hand into a two-fingered grip at the base of Irie’s cock, squeezing so tightly it’s more of an ache than satisfaction even as Irie is gasping an inhale of relief. There’s a hum as if of consideration, Byakuran tips his head to the side, and when he drags his fingers up Irie’s hips jerk up off the bed as if to lessen the burn of friction against him.

“ _Byakuran_ ,” he wails. His fingers slide against metal, ache settling into his knuckles as he squeezes tighter, and Byakuran laughs, lets his grip go a little looser just as his fingers slip up against the head of Irie’s cock.

“Too much?” He slides backwards across the bed, sending up another wave of perfume as his knees press over the scattered petals. The fingers at Irie’s shoulder skim down his chest, tighten to scrape red lines of hurt over the bottom edge of his ribcage and the flat of his stomach. “You don’t have any tolerance at all, Sho-chan.”

Irie doesn’t offer a response. He’s fallen back to the mattress, his limbs relaxing in the relief of sensation and the cessation of painful excess; his fingers are still looped around the frame but his grip is looser, barely a hold at all more than an absent curl of his hand around the bars.

“We’ll have to work on that,” Byakuran says. He’s much lower now, his voice so suggestive in location Irie lifts his head, looks down to confirm that Byakuran’s mouth really is just over his hip. It is; Byakuran smirks when he sees Irie watching, parts his lips and trails his tongue against his lower lip with deliberate care. He must feel the way Irie twitches in his hold, must be able to hear the catch in the other’s breathing, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even laugh before he’s turning sideways, opening his mouth wider so he can slide the warm wet of his lips over the sensitive head of Irie’s cock.

Irie shuts his eyes, lets his head fall back against the pillow and lets all the air in his lungs leave his body in a groan. His legs slide wider in unconscious invitation, making space for Byakuran to lean in closer, to lay across the bed if he wants. Byakuran is laughing far back in his throat, the vibration is sliding directly into Irie’s blood and shuddering through his hips, and he’s stroking at a different rhythm with his fingers, his grip catching minimal lubrication from his tongue until his fingers are slipping easy across Irie’s skin. His lips tighten, he sucks hard for a moment, and Irie very nearly lets the bed go to grab at Byakuran’s hair before he remembers and tightens his grip as if to make up for his near-lapse.

Irie’s not even trying to talk. His breathing is audible and loud, forming itself around choked moans and little whimpering inhales in response to Byakuran sucking, or stroking, or licking up against him, and he’s starting to shake, spreading his legs wider still as if that will encourage Byakuran to get closer. The smell of roses is heavy on his tongue, everything is going hazy and hot and Irie wonders distantly if he will think of this moment, now, whenever he catches a lingering hint of perfume in the air. Byakuran switches hands, closes all four fingers hard around Irie’s cock and holds them still while he works over the sensitive head with his tongue and lips and the faintest threat of teeth behind the soft of his mouth. He’s still laughing, purring amusement far back in his throat, and it’s humming up Irie’s spine, arching him off the bed and winding everything in him taut and straining for satisfaction. He’s just gasping an inhale, feeling his breathing stall out with expectation, when Byakuran’s fingers go tight on him and the warm friction of his lips pulls back and away.

“Not yet,” Byakuran says. Irie hears his words at a great distance, on the other side of the trembling adrenaline pounding against his skin and up along his spine. The grip against his cock draws tighter, forms into a wall for the wave of impending pleasure to beat itself against, and Irie doesn’t have to hear the other’s laughter to know he’s grinning. He can’t stop arching up, reaching desperately for an accidental slip of fingers, but his hands stay where they are, even when the pounding desperation of  _almost_ fades into the bitter aftertaste of  _not yet_. He drops back to the mattress, lets himself go heavy with denied pleasure, and it’s only then that Byakuran’s amusement bubbles out into sound and his grip eases and slides away.

“You’ll have to wait a little longer than that,” he says. Irie’s not sure if it’s intended to be comfort or teasing; it doesn’t matter, not with his entire body trembling with pushed-off pleasure and his cock slick and aching for want of friction. There are fingers against his spread legs, trailing up the inside of his knee to his thigh, and Irie  _knows_  Byakuran’s not going to touch him so soon but he can’t help whimpering, arching up against air like that will somehow persuade the other to help him. Byakuran ignores this, slides his fingers up high to brush against the inside crease of Irie’s thigh before he pulls away entirely, slides back to sit against his heels and leave Irie chilled from lack of contact.

“Byakuran?” Irie lifts his head again, blinks like that will help chase away the haze of nearsightedness overhanging his vision. Byakuran is doing something with his clothes, fishing in his pocket and looking down at his hands, but Irie can’t make out exactly what he’s doing, just that the action is as graceful and self-confident as everything Byakuran does. “Can’t I have my glasses back?”

“Back?” Byakuran tips his head up, enough to shake his hair back from his face, smiles that special bright smile that twists at the corners of his eyes but doesn’t touch his gaze itself. “You were never wearing them in the first place, Sho-chan, it’s not giving them  _back_.” He replaces his hand against Irie’s thigh, pushes his legs wide enough to touch against the edge of discomfort, and Irie knows what’s coming without asking.

“I like you like this.” Byakuran’s fingers are slick with lubrication and pressed in against each other; they’re still a stretch, taken at once, and he doesn’t give Irie time to adjust before he’s shoving in farther, as far in as he can reach while Irie jerks against the bed and wails a groan of response. He’s not even sure if it’s pain or pleasure he’s feeling, just that there’s too much of it, his tight-drawn nerves are sparking erratic all up and down his body until he has no control over his movement. There’s just the tension in his hands, the desperate hold in obedience to Byakuran’s command overriding even the instinctive movement of reaction.

“You look so vulnerable,” Byakuran goes on. His fingers are tightening against Irie’s leg, bracing him in place and digging bruises into him at the same time. His other hand is moving, drawing back to thrust in again with his other fingers curled out of the way. Irie can’t decide if he wants to pull himself away or shove in closer for more; it’s just the wrong amount, balancing exactly along the line between too-much and not-enough. “You can’t even see me.” He pushes in hard, fast and quick, and the balance skids away, it  _is_  enough, the electricity grounds out and ripples through Irie’s body. He falls to the bed, the taut line of his spine giving way, and Byakuran laughs, starts to fall into a rhythm with his hand that would be too much if Irie were resisting him at all.

“But I can see you,” Byakuran continues, still speaking as calmly as if they are having a conversation, as if Irie can truly focus on the meaning of his words. Irie blinks at the ceiling, gulps air around the rippling sensation of Byakuran’s fingers moving inside him and lets the sound of the other’s voice drown him with the friction of the other’s touch and the smell of the flowers surrounding him. “You’re look so fragile, Sho-chan.” Another thrust, hard enough to rock Irie back over the sheets. “Like the petals you’re crushing right now. But you’re not that delicate, are you?”

“Byakuran,” Irie says. There’s no question anymore, it’s all formless plea even forming on his tongue. He’s shuddering with each motion of Byakuran’s hand, heat sparking out into him with the suggestion of pleasure but not the promise. He wets his lips with his tongue, takes a breath around the moan forming in his throat. “ _Ahh_. Please, Byakuran.”

“You beg so well,” Byakuran observes, and draws his fingers free before Irie can go on proving his point. With the pressure gone the ache is worse, the raw-edged need for more burning like flames until Irie is sure he’d take anything Byakuran wants to give him. Byakuran is moving away but Irie can see his hands moving against his shirt as he strips the fabric up and off his head, so he takes a breath, shifts his weight in a futile attempt to seek out some kind of satisfaction while waiting for Byakuran to come back. The petals under him crush deeper into the sheets, bruise until they give up their damp to Irie’s skin, and Byakuran laughs.

“Impatient?” Another rustle of fabric, a hum of satisfaction, and the bed shifts with the additional weight settling against the end. Irie tips his chin down to watch Byakuran slide in between his legs, his hair collecting shades of purple from the blur around in until it looks nearly violet. Byakuran catches him watching, flashes a smile Irie can see, and pushes at his legs.

“Wider,” and he doesn’t need the space, there’s plenty of room for Byakuran’s narrow hips, but Irie moves anyway, gives way to the implacable shove of those fingers and angles his legs as wide as he can manage. Fingers curl under his knee, lift his leg off the bed entirely, and Irie is just tightening his grip on the bed in anticipation when Byakuran’s cock presses against him and the other angles his hips forward to thrust inside him. Irie shuts his eyes against the burst of sensation, listens to his voice spilling around the shape of a groan as Byakuran hums in satisfaction, and everything is going white, shaky and burning out into the too-tight grip of his hands on the frame, and there’s not enough sensation, there is an absolute lack of contact against Irie’s flushed cock to counter the strain of pressure rippling up into him from every movement of Byakuran’s hips.

“Perfect,” Byakuran says, the word purring around the soft tone that says he doesn’t expect Irie to listen to him. His hand at the other’s knee pushes up, spreads Irie open for him, and he’s falling into an easy rhythm, smooth thrusts that are still coming fast and deep enough to guarantee Irie trembles with each movement. The hand at his hip draws away, fingertips reach out to brush against Irie’s cheek. Irie gasps at the contact, opens his eyes, and Byakuran is curling in over him, close enough Irie can make out the points of the mark under his eye and the locks of his pale hair framing his features.

“Sho-chan.” It’s affectionate, sincere and so sweet as to be doting, and there’s no reassurance in that at all. “Does this feel good?”

Irie whimpers, pushes against the bedframe to slide himself downward. He’s shaking himself out of existence, every movement of Byakuran’s hips crushing his stability as certainly as their combined movement is crushing the petals around and under them. Byakuran pushes his leg back, high until Irie’s knee is nearly touching his chest, and it’s a stretch, it aches against Irie’s hip and along the back of his thigh, but it’s shifting his hips up too so every one of the other’s thrusts crashes starburst heat out into Irie’s body.

“Use your words,” Byakuran suggests, and Irie gasps a lungful of air and manages “ _Yes_ ” against the sharp dig of the other into him. It sounds forced, half a word and mostly a moan, but Byakuran laughs, trails his fingers down against Irie’s jaw to the line of his throat. The press of his fingertips lingers at Irie’s pulse, and Irie doesn’t know what he can feel other than the panic-fast pound of his heartbeat, but that’s enough to earn him a purr of amusement and a slide of fingers down his shoulder, over his collarbone to his chest, and Irie can’t breathe, now, there’s too much suggestion to the movement of Byakuran’s fingers.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Byakuran’s touch drags down the middle of Irie’s chest, scores lines of red to match the bruise from his lips, and Irie can’t speak, this time, can only arch his back and twist his hands until the metal scrapes raw across his palms. Byakuran laughs, at his movement or his silence or something else, Irie’s not sure, but he’s dragging lower, down to the shiver across Irie’s stomach until his fingertips skid against the slick of pre-come against the other’s skin, until Irie can tip his hips up and bump the head of his cock against Byakuran’s knuckles.

“Is that a yes?” Byakuran teases. His hand goes sideways, skates down just alongside where Irie  _wants_  his touch, and he’s laughing, still pushing Irie’s leg up and maintaining the steady pace of his thrusts while Irie whimpers a wordless answer. Irie’s thoughts are going hazy, melting into desperation, and he’s sure he’s going to let go of the frame soon, his conscious resistance will give way and he’ll let obedience go in favor of reaching for the aching thud of his heartbeat in his cock.

“Okay,” Byakuran says.

Irie thinks, at first, that that’s the lead-in to another sentence, a rhetorical question or taunting comment. But then there’s heat rushing out into him, friction burning through his veins, and he’s groaning before he realizes Byakuran’s hand is closed around him, is stroking up over him so hard and fast Irie is choking on air, is shaking more with relief than pleasure for what feels like minutes. Then his vision goes white, his attention flickers out and away, and for a long span of uncounted breaths there’s nothing for Irie but heat, and friction, and the sound of Byakuran laughing.

Byakuran is still stroking over Irie when awareness comes back to his thoughts, more in idle contact than for sensation, but it’s still enough for Irie to shudder and try to pull away. He nearly reaches for Byakuran’s wrist before remembering, realizes that he has actually managed to maintain his hold on the frame and tightens his aching fingers one more time.

“Good,” Byakuran purrs. He lets his grip go, slips his fingers in against the sticky spill of come against Irie’s stomach and pushes down hard enough to hold Irie in place while he starts to thrust harder and faster even that before. He’s watching his hand, his mouth open as he breathes and his fingers sliding against Irie’s skin, and Irie’s watching his face, blinking at the blur of the other’s features and letting the aftershocks rush through him, spiking in the wake of Byakuran’s movement until they’re nearly painful, sensation rubbing him raw and aching and exhausted. Then Byakuran leans in harder, shoves Irie down against the slide of the flowers under him as his movement starts to skid out-of-rhythm. His breathing catches, his head drops forward, and his fingers dig in against Irie’s skin as he thrusts forward and sighs, the sound heavy with satisfaction as he comes.

He only relaxes for the first moments of pleasure; then he’s pulling away, letting his hold on Irie go while he rocks back over his heels. Without the pressure of his hand Irie can’t stop shaking, trembling against the sheets like he really is cold even though his skin is still radiant with the burn of sensation.

“You did well, Sho-chan,” Byakuran announces, sliding off the bed. Irie doesn’t try to lift his head this time; he’s not even certain Byakuran is done with him, until there’s the cool of plastic against his forehead and he opens his eyes to his vision clearing as Byakuran fits his glasses on. He looks sideways, up at the smile Byakuran is turning on him, and with the clarity of the lenses he can see the soft at the corner of purple eyes and the pleasure collecting at the bottom of the other’s lip.

Byakuran reaches out without looking away from Irie’s face, closes his fingers at the other’s wrist. “You can let go now.” He pulls and it’s only then that Irie can get his fingers to loosen, only when Byakuran has eased his hand away that he can feel the cramp of effort settling against his knuckles and the skin rubbed raw all across his palms. Byakuran’s thumb presses against the scrape, massaging out the ache and irritating the skin at once. Irie flinches but doesn’t pull away, lets Byakuran rub into his skin until the worst of the tension has faded and there’s nothing but the sharper surface hurt.

He’s still focused in on that, or maybe just dazed and slow to process movement, so when Byakuran leans in close his lips are at Irie’s forehead before the other has a chance to react. There’s the drag of damp, affection and tenderness catching at his skin, and Irie shuts his eyes, blocks out visual distractions so when Byakuran murmurs, “Happy anniversary, Sho-chan,” it overlays the smell of roses and settles into a memory immediately.

It seems like a good day to start making happier ones.


End file.
